Faerie Tales
by Eveilae
Summary: A faerie is sent down to Ichigo and Rukia to help them with some annoyingly vague threat. But, while she's waiting she wants to play the role of a not-so-subtle matchmaker to Ichigo and Rukia's irritation.
1. Once Upon a Time

_**My first Bleach fic. There should be more IchigoxRukia fics out there, I'm hungry for them!**_

**_I don't own Bleach. _**

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**Faerie Tales**

Once upon a time there was a faerie in a neon green cocktail dress.

Once upon a time there was a boy with a perpetual frown and bright orange hair.

Once upon a time there was a girl who risked her life for a stranger.

Once upon a time there was a world that brought them all together.

It was a dark night; surely you know the kind. You go outside on one of these nights and you can _feel_ the power in the air. It coils and snaps like a whip through the silence. It was the kind of night where electricity and machines hold little power over the land and its people. It was perfect time for the guardian faerie to be sent out.

So, on this night the faerie fluttered down on her thin black wings, her whites narrowed as she stared at the building suspiciously. This could not possibly be the place, could it? Such beings could not live in the humble a home, could they?

Yet it would have been impossible for her to return and ask for corrections. Once again she would have to suffer for her superiors' mistakes. She sighed as she sunk lower in the sky and approached one of the windows cautiously. Peeking in made her feel guilty and perverted, but she quickly smothered the feelings and examined the room from the windowsill, using her large wings to balance herself perfectly.

Inside a figure laid under a mess of covers. When she closed her eyes and concentrated on smelling she caught a whiff of Shinigami power emitting heavily from the room. It seemed they had given her the correct instructions, for once. And so she began pulling roughly at the window, annoyed at humans for the fiftieth time that day for their ingenuity when there was no need for it. If humans weren't so greedy to begin with, they wouldn't _need_ these heavy windows!

No appreciation for their guardians. None at all.

After several minutes of struggling—not counting the ones that she had spent blasting the window with curses and harmless firespells—she managed to open it far enough to slip under. Unfortunately, the window banged shut as soon as she was through, so she didn't have an escape route in a case things got ugly.

Which was a horrid mistake on her part, seeing as how she should have known from experience that when it came to dealing with humans and Shinigamis, trouble followed her like a lovesick teenage fangirl would follow an over-indulged male singer.

Then again, this faerie wasn't exactly notorious for planning ahead, so it shouldn't have surprised anyone that she went ahead without thinking. Either it was the fact she didn't want to waste time planning out an alternative escape route, or the way her fingers itched to pat the orange spikes protruding from under the sheets, but she landed softly on the pillow next to his ear.

Close up, his scent became nearly intoxicating for the small girl. The aroma curled around her like a smoke from the pipe of a caterpillar, sedating her momentarily. He smelt like flowers on the ground in summer, and like rain falling on the rooftops. Like girls dancing naked and tigers hunting prey. There was also the lingering odor of swords and blood and robes too black, and this mad the faerie sick with bad memories.

And even fainter, she could smell a Barbie dressed in plastic, and masks and makeup used to cover up too much truth. That must be the girl, she thought to herself.

"Kurosaki Ichigoooooo . . ." she whispered in a singsong voice. He didn't stir and she poked his earlobe roughly. She kept repeating his name tirelessly over and over, until her fingers got tired of poking the loose skin. So she climbed up the side of his head and sat down comfortably among the orange, shampoo and flower smelling spikes. She rubbed her hands lightly over his scalp and smiled as she heard him make a noise and shift in his sleep.

"You're _so_ cute!" she squealed, and her wings trembled. "If only you weren't so _big_." She paused and then broke out in a fit of giggles. "Aika, you are one _perverted_ woman!"

"You're an annoying one, too!" Said woman had no time to react before she found herself gripped in a large, warm, sweaty hand. Her wings were pressed roughly against her back and she felt herself disliking the silky feel of her wings against her bare back. She would have struggled, but she knew enough to know it was useless.

"_Now_ you wake up, you useless dog!" In response he held her even tighter, and she gasped as the wind blew out of her lungs. She didn't try to speak again. Instead she stared at him stonily. Now that he was awake he was far more interesting to study.

His eyes are angry, suspicious, sad, full of unrelenting emotions that pull at one from all sides until one's emotional guts and sanity are splayed all over the walls in a which unpleasant manner. Aika felt an odd feeling poke her heart irritatingly, a sort of mother-hen sort of thing. Never having been one to like children very much, this feeling was rather rare for her and at first she thought she had reached a new level of disgust for humans.

"Just what are you? A Shinigami? They come pint-sized, too?" She glared at him, but didn't answer. Rude manners would get anywhere with her. Shaking her angrily, he repeated his questions "What _are_ you?"

She felt her teeth rattle uncomfortably in her mouth, and she bit her tongue accidentally. She still adamantly refused to respond to his question, though. She imaged piles and piles of ice cream at home waiting for her once this little mission was over. This kept her mouth shut.

"Fine!" He relented as he threw her down onto his crumpled covers. She was extremely relieved—cute boy or not—not to have fallen onto his groin . . .

"You may be cute—for a _human_, mind you—but you're _mean_." She stuck her tongue out at the orange-haired boy childishly, and wriggled her wings at him shamelessly before fluttering up towards the ceiling. "And what _is_ she, a skeleton in your closet? Queen Mab, you are hopeless." She flapped over to his closet door, and Ichigo—for that was the rude boy's name—was a little slow on the uptake. By the time he realized what the faerie was trying to do, she had already opened the door enough to slip though—large wings and all—and she had disappeared into the darkness of the closet.

He expected to hear a gasp of surprise, accompanied immediately after by a thump as the annoying faerie hits the wall—or door as may be the case. Instead he heard a scream of fright and found a girl clinging to his waist tightly. He looked down at said girl—more like _woman_, if he believed her vague statement about her age—and was surprised as to why she was hanging on to him.

The faerie watched the two of them from the ceiling with extreme amusement. Their scents dissolve into one another like an old animal carcass in soil and chocolate power in milk, to make something intoxicatingly beautiful. His flowers fell onto her own deep scent of clean winter snow, and sweet chocolate right out of the wrapper meeting soft, hungry lips. Of course, their weak human nostrils would never be able to make out such smells, and obviously they could not see what was right in front of their faces.

"I'm here on a mission," she declared loudly as soon as she was sure the two of them were listening. Ignoring the fact that the girl's face was still buried in the boy's chest, she continued, "Something evil is afoot, and I, Aika, infamously known to Shinigami, have been sent to you two to stop it!" She expected some sort of response. Nearly anything would have been acceptable.

Except for what they gave her of course.

The girl looked up at her briefly, only to squeak and push her head back down.

The boy cocked an eyebrow up at her and looked incredulous. "Yeah, I'm sure Shinigamis tremble in their shoes at the sight of _you_."

Her wings began fluttering angrily, and she pointed an especially long nail in his direction accusingly. "You _don't_ want to see me angry, little boy!"

"Little!" he scoffed, still holding onto the girl, the faerie noticed haughtily. "You're one to talk!"

"I'll have you know, I knew this earth in the days when your kind was barely beginning and building dirty, polluted things out of sand with the blood and sweat of their slaves." She was beginning to get worked up and her whole body—small as it was—practically quivered in response. Her anger had a horrible, tangy reek to it, and it seemed to spread through the whole room so quickly and heavily that even the two humans on the bed seemed to sense it.

"I didn't think faeries were real! I thought all those stories about them were children stories!" The girl managed to get her words heard when she pulled away from Ichigo slightly. He looked down at her distraught face and almost laughed. This little creature scared the girl who looked large, terrifying skull creatures in the face fearlessly?

"They _are_ children stories," the faerie cries indignantly. "You Shinigami think you're all-knowing. Please. Not of you is alive that remembers the time when our kinds lived together and lived simply, like the birds in the trees.

But you Shinigami liked to pretend to be powerful, to be knowledgeable, to be the knights in shining armor. Don't you remember the tale any longer? The real one, the true one? Apparently, not. So you created a balance to keep. We faeries didn't agree. Don't agree. So we left, and now you all think this balance is natural and that you are the heroes when you are really the dragons, hovering greedily over a hoard of lives."

By now the girl—whose name was Rukia, in the end—was looking up at the faerie, the look on her face a mix of fear and wonder. "What do you mean?"

But she wouldn't answer, this small creature with the years on her wings and nature in her veins.

"I am here to protect the two of you from a specific danger. I will not leave until this mission has been accomplished. This is a promise I make by the flower and the tree and the earth in its entirety." Ichigo and Rukia stared at the faerie in confusion and wonder and some soft, hidden bit of respect.

And so, they didn't live happily ever after, in fact, in the faerie's opinion, the two of them had barely begun to _live_ to begin with. And there was worse to come—that's why she had come—so there wouldn't be happily any time soon.

And ever after? What was that _anyway?_ Human words twisted to make pretty sounds, when any intelligent creature knew that happily ever after was a trick of the light, an illusion, a slip of the hand.

But she was a faerie, after all, and her profession was in the land where all those stories came from, slipping through the cracks and arriving in the mind of a young child. So, she thought as she watched the girl and the boy she was charged with protecting, why not give these simple creatures some semblance of the happily ever after all thins strive for so desperately?

You know, just for kicks.


	2. In a Kingdom Far, Far Away

**Thank you for the reviews!**

**Decidedly OOC for a reason. You'll see why at the end. **

**Song is Life Is Like A Boat, by Rei. This is the first ending song to Bleach. It used to grate my nerves, but then I kept listening to it, and it grew on me. Like some sort of weird fungus that you don't want to like, but taste nervously when no one's looking. And then you like it. And you write fanfictions with it in it. And becomes a huge part of your life, and you marry it. Okay, no. I went a little far. Forgive me. **

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Faerie Tales**

**Chapter One**

Once upon a time, a boy liked a girl. They didn't live in a kingdom far, far away. In fact, for some of you, they may be right on your doorstep.

No, not literally. Don't go outside and check.

Anyway, he lived in an age when there was little subtlety when it came to attraction. The handsome princes and noble stable lads no longer courted a woman for months before showering them with kisses. Love in this day and age smelt raw and drained—like a tired, aged lion that realized it has caught it's last meal—the word itself as overused as ever, but in the hearts of the people, it no longer meant as much. In fact, the boy's friend regularly made a fool of himself by revealing his appeal to a pretty girl in a painfully obvious manner. So why did said boy hide behind metaphorical curtains?

He knew how to react to girls. Having lived with two girls his whole life had given him plenty of experience with women, and most of the time he refused to bother with girls because of this. But he knew how to act around them

And he knew how to act around the girl. He just wasn't sure how to explain the concept of dating and—in turn—sex to the girl. He had a nagging suspicion she would need an in-depth explanation for such things. The fact that his father had handed him a graphic porn manga on his thirteenth birthday by way of explaining sex to him wasn't helpful, either. It was times like that when he desperately _needed_ his mother as much as he _wanted _her back.

Even still, he wasn't a deprived boy, not counting the untimely death of his mother, nor was he especially greedy or stupid. Some would have called him bitter and cynical, but in truth all he really felt was sad.

The girl was too unlike him to have anyone suspect his feelings for her. He could find her annoying, loud, hot-tempered and manipulating. The only thing he could find in common with her at those times was her irascibleness. Unfortunately, he more frequently he found her to be endearing, adorable, intense, strangely wise and amusing. But he still wasn't planning on telling her—or anyone else, for that matter—that any time soon.

This boy and this girl had a faerie godmother—as the children might say—who he seemed to dislike, but in his heart of hearts, he really did not. He would never have said so out loud, but the faerie godmother was not a faerie for nothing.

This boy was tired, and not just physically tired either. He was tired of the fighting, and of his life in general. How was he expected to balance this: his work, his emotions, his classes, and everything else? What was all this for, anyway? He wanted to stop fighting—bleeding, pain running—to be able to have a good night's sleep without impeding doom continuously hanging over his head, to have his _life_ back.

But with the fighting gone, the comforting company of that small, black-haired girl would disappear as well. What had been so great about his life to begin with, anyway? School and friends in a monotonous merry-go-round of hidden weaknesses. At least now he had a point, a reason for being.

And he had her. Kind of.

He would miss the peaks he took at her face in the last nights—when only the empty moon would have gossiped his secret away, if she had known how—and the spontaneous event of their skin meeting, and speaking in primal languages neither understood. All he'd be left with would be dreams that left him hot and unsatisfied, memories that would leave his heart aching, and an emptiness he wanted so desperately to fill with her.

He was also tired of himself. Once again, he felt weak—like when he had failed his mother who was left dead, with the worms and dirt and dying flowers six feet up. He could destroy monsters twice, three times his size but he could not open his mouth and tell the girl that he wanted her closer, that he wanted to have her know him.

He was tired of trying to read her actions, of trying to interpret them, and getting his hopes up only to have his own cynical personality shoot them down. His hopes always ended up in the middle of the street, with the cars running over them, time and time again. He was tiring of that as well.

He hated the silence he kept, like he hated the way she teased him unknowingly, in the mornings awaking him half-dressed and shameless, and his own nature that kept him locked in a cage of deceit while he watched her secretly. But this was his life, and would take these feelings of uncertainty and self-hatred of having her gone and having his closet empty.

One day, a spring day, when the air was full of the aroma of pies and flowers and rebirth of those things sleeping, he asked the faerie godmother for help.

_I can't tell her how I feel until I know her own feelings towards me,_ he said.

She had an easy answer for this easy problem, and for once he wanted this help, he accepted this help, but only because he was so tired, and this season—this day—of rebirth and dust that tastes like honey, was not helping him like it seemed to help other's. He watched the couple join in a primordial dance of lips under the cherry blossom tree, and wondered why he wasn't in such a situation himself.

So he accepted her help, her solution, before she even offered it.

Birds understand each other more simply than nearly any other animal I know. I will use that language, that melody, and she will speak to you like that, she said.

The boy didn't like thinking of the girl as a bird. Birds were feathery and disreputably known for being prone to biting people. And though she had kicked him countless numbers of times, she had never _bitten_ him. He found himself blushing at the thought of her teeth nibbling on the skin of his neck, and smothered the thought immediately.

So he lay on his bed, waiting for her. Would she come in form of a bird, he wondered, and checked out of his window at nearby trees every so often, just to make sure. Perhaps that faerie godmother decided to not even grant his wish and got lazy. His cynical attitude began deteriorating the boy's hope once again, and he could feel himself slumping more at everything disappointing thought he came up with.

When at last to burst into his room—although burst might be incorrect since she landed silently on floor from his windowsill—he was relieved to see she looked exactly the same. But when she opened her mouth to say something, something that would no doubt make his heart twist no matter what the words . . .

Nobody knows who I really am. I've never felt this empty before, she sang.

Then she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with shock. Birds . . . sang. That's what the faerie had meant with her subtle and cleverly chosen words. She was worse than he was. She couldn't say things outright, either, it seemed.

Excuse me? he asked.

She shrugged and seemed to open her mouth to express the same feeling with her words, but instead more bird language seeps out.

And if I ever need someone to come along, who's gonna comfort me and keep me strong? she sang.

He voice was husky, low, and completely the type of singing voice he expected from her. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't an amazing voice, but it was hers and this was enough to make him want her. He wanted that voice whispering his name, softly, so softly that not even someone a foot away would hear. A word just for him, a secret passed from her lips for his ears only.

Before the boy could ask her what she was talking about—he knew to begin with, but he would never admit having spoken to the faerie, because that would end with him speaking of what their conversation had been about—she fled, leaving the way she came. He jumped off his bed, and leaned out the window, watching her run off, her thin, strong legs bringing her farther and farther away. He cursed and flew out of his room, determined to catch up to her before she became little more than a speck of dust in the distance.

Had her words been real, torn reluctantly from her soul? If so, he felt guilty. He had no right to listen to her private thoughts like that. He owed her that much. He would apologize; convince her to not try to speak until he had found something that could help her. And that would be the end of it. He wanted to hear the words, almost more than anything, but he wasn't callous.

But still, he wondered. Did she feel empty, like he did? Did she want someone to hold her, fill in the fill-in-the-blank nailed onto her heart, and keep her strong? He would gratefully accept such a position, just to be close to her. He wanted, more than anything, to know her, to be the one she could say knew her better than anyone.

It took more than half a day to find her. The boy would have never have thought that it would be so hard to miss the small girl with hair the color of a raven's feathers and eyes as dark as the shadow under the wings of a hawk.

He finally did find her, and the irony slipped right past him. She was sitting under a cherry blossom tree, surrounded by the light pink petals. They fell on her lightly, but she didn't seem to notice, because she sat rigidly still. He sat down next to her, and the two of them were silent, the space between them speaking volumes in their stead.

Don't say a word. I'll ask the faerie if she can help you. Until then, you don't have to say a thing, he said.

She turned to face him, her facade as rigid as her body, all except for her eyes. They looked frightened, and his arms itched to hold her to him, to wipe her eyes of that fear, to protect her. But he held back, he kept his face stony.

Nobody knows who I really am. Maybe they just don't give a damn. Be if I ever need someone to come along, I know you would follow me, and keep me strong, she sang.

And he shook he his head, wanting desperately to not be hearing the words he had been waiting for long to come from her lips. He wouldn't be able to deal if this were all just something that the faerie's spell was responsible for. He needed to be sure it was her words, and her feelings. But he didn't know how, and these stupid cherry blossoms weren't helping, were only plugging up his nose with their aroma, and falling on him.

I will, he said.

She looked at him questionably, but didn't answer.

I will follow you. I'll keep you strong, he said.

He'd said it. He'd told her what he thought, what he wanted. Well, not really, what he wanted, specifically, but generally his meaning should have been clear. And her eyes didn't seem repulsed, just surprised, just . . . content?

He was tired of hiding his feelings. He was tired of keeping his arms by his side when all he wanted was to hold her to him while he kissed her soundly. So he gave in.

He approached her, quickly, and his arms went around her, holding her face gently to his chest. He wasn't ready to kiss her, not yet. This would do, though, and his heart was pounding, throbbing, exploding in his chest as he did so.

And it stopped when she reached up and wrapped her own arms around his neck, her face buried into his neck, her breath on his skin like a light breeze. It made a chill go up his spine, and he liked the feeling. He wanted more.

And every time I see your face the ocean heaves up to my heart. You make me wanna strain at the oars, and soon I can see the shore. Oh, I can see the shore. When will I see the shore?

And he took her face into his hands, and reveled at the feel of her under his palms, finally, finally. And he wanted to have this moment forever, to drag it on and feel this amazing for the rest of his life, but she was looking at him so calmly, so innocently, that even one glance down at her mouth was enough to drive him over the edge.

When their lips met, it was no slight caress, like the touch of a butterfly's wing on the back of your hand, nor was it the polite contact of the handshake of two rivals. It was the rough and fierce games of two flames, fighting for domination. The two flames met and merged even as they battled, a bit of each blending into the other.

When they broke apart, the heat had taken control and the two of them were left breathless. He'd done it. He'd kissed her and taken her breath away. She was the lovely Snow White and he was her prince—sans the horse—and he knew, from the look in her eyes, that she didn't feel quite so empty anymore.

And they lived happily ever after.

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A long pause followed Aika's story. "What the hell was that for!" Ichigo exclaimed angrily, getting up from his bed—where'd been sitting—and rushing over to his desk, where Aika had been loitering to tell her tale. She hovered up into the air just quickly enough to escape his grip.

"It was merely a story, Ichigo. No need to get upset."

"That was about us! And it was a crap story about us! As if I would ever think anything as corny as 'I wanted nothing more than to hold her.' What do you think life is, a fucking romance novel?" The faerie could see that Ichigo was getting rather furious, down there on the ground below her. She didn't answer, and merely fluttered her wings silently.

She had told them the story merely to arouse this curiosity—not other things, surely. She had not told them a smut story, after all. She had sensed something in Ichigo, something suspicious, but she would have to wait until Rukia was not in present company. Those were thing not very appropriate to speak off in front of a lady.

"Language, Ichigo, please."

"What do you mean, Ichigo, that that was a story about us? It was about a boy and girl in love." She sighed—almost dreamily, to Ichigo's apparent revulsion—and falls backwards onto his bed. "It's too bad things like that don't really happen," she said this in a slightly sad tone.

What was it that put that tone into her voice, the faerie asked herself, and one glance at the orange-spiked haired boy proved that he was thinking along the same lines. But neither of them asked, and in the end, the three dispersed, the two Shinigamis off to fight a creature that was of little to no interest to Aika, and the faerie herself flitting off in a new yellow plaid skirt and black blouse outfit to flirt with the flowermaidens that were lingering about the cherry blossom trees this season.

Perhaps she would see a pair of lovers sitting underneath, holding each other, and filling the emptiness in the heart of the other with sweet touches that remind each of the forgotten caress of a faerie mother, Queen Mab, who was the mother of all lovers. They would remind her of her story, and of her little side mission to show those two Shinigami a little about the emptiness neither of them acknowledge, much less wished to fill.

But first, the cute flowermaidens were calling to her, all legs underneath those pink petals.

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**Hehe, I would get mad, too.**


	3. There Lived a Prince

**Thank you reviewers. I'm glad you like it. **

**Not a lot of Ichigo in this one, sorry. **

**Written while listening to: Fiona Apple.**

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**Chapter Two**

Once upon a time there were faeries.

Twice upon a time there were Shinigami.

Thrice upon a time there was the world they shared.

"What did you mean by saying that us Shinigami think we're heroes when we're really the villains?" Rukia is sitting up in the branch of a tree, as the other girls in her class flutter around, speaking in strange tongues—or so it seems to both Aika and Rukia at times. Aika is lying on a leaf, balancing herself perfectly as the sun showers her with its special warmth. She wriggles in delight as a light breeze brushes past her, whispering a secret in her ear as it does so.

The wind will talk to whoever listens, about anything. Aika smoothes out her long, black shirt, and jumps away from the leaf seconds before the branch breaks. She murmurs a thank you to the wind as she flutters down onto another large leaf nearby.

"Shinigamis are the not the villains," Aika replies airily as she lounges, teasing the clouds with peaks of skin under fabric. "Where's Ichigo?" She doesn't want to take about the past mistakes of the Shinigami. There is nothing that can take back the actions, just as the evil stepmother can never unsay her cruel demands.

Rukia is stubborn, a mule that wants that carrot. "He's eating lunch. Okay, if Shinigamis are not the heroes, and not the villains, then what are we?" Her toes curl in her shoes, and she wonders fleetingly if anyone can see up her skirt. She decides that they probably cannot, and even if they can, she does not care. The bark is rough and pleasant under her hands and thighs, and her skin and the tree seems to understand each other as they rest comfortably on one another.

"There are no villains, there are no heroes. Such things only exist in stories." Aika looks down at girl below her, wondering if the words will actually sink in, or whether they will slide right off, like raindrops on an umbrella. "There are only dragons, their victims and the knights who die trying." She is starting to sound like Ichigo, she realizes sadly.

Rukia doesn't answer, simply staring off into the distance thoughtfully. This pushes Aika to a decision, one quickly determined, as an army general might make in the heat of battle.

"You want to know the true story?" she offers, gently landing on the girl's shoulder, light like a snowflake. Rukia's skin tingles beneath the cloth that separates them, and she nods, slowly. She does want to know, because this faerie creature seems to really have years and years of knowledge and strength and wisdom from pain and memories. And Rukia wants this knowledge, this strength, this wisdom, as well.

"Well, it is the first story, and whether it really happened or not is not important. After all, who even knows if God happened? But whether or not God happened is not the point. It is the people's belief in God that matters. As is the case for this." She pauses, and envelops herself in Rukia's mass of hair. It smells like she does, of hidden misery and death that has passed her by, claiming those near her. Aika can't help but like it, and she takes it in deeply.

"There was a man, and he was noble and fine. The women wanted him, the men wanted him, the knights wanted to _be_ him, and the earth respected him. All in all, he was just about the perfect man. And all he wanted to be able to save lives, and watch the lives that continue because of him. It wasn't the glory; it wasn't the fame or the sex. He just wanted to save lives.

So he did that, to the extent of his powers. Oh, but even a man such as he was could only do so much. He saved so many, but the only ones he kept seeing were the ones he couldn't save. He felt he needed to be more. Stronger, smarter, more graceful, cleverer. And then he met the woman.

She was not beautiful, but she was clever, and she had her own skills, as does everyone. The village shunned her for being what they called a witch, and she lived on the outskirts of the village because of that. She lived among her flowers, which wafted a perpetual aroma of lavender and red and yellow and green and white around her. She surrounded herself with life, and injured animals came and went without feeling they were tied to her once they were gone. A bear she had once freed from a trap could have attacked her for cub food days afterwards, and the woman would not have held a grudge.

She knew the way life worked, and accepted it calmly. He caught a glimpse of her, kneeling in front of a tree, talking to it, as if that were the norm. Even he could not understand the intricate language of bark and leaf and root, so he immediately respected her, and feared her.

He also loved her. He loved her flower scent, and her animal hands and white eyes that could see into him. And she kept him strong, and he kept her warm. But still he could not save everyone.

She saw this pain in him, and one day she went to the woods to ask the Queen Mab for help. Queen Mab said that she would grant her wish, but that it would end their love forever. The woman did not really believe a love such as theirs could really end, and even if it did, as long as he no longer lived with his pain, she would be happy. She had lived without love before.

So the Queen Mab claimed three months of her life, while she made her toil and learn the ability that would grant her lover's wish. The man waited impatiently, and in those three months became the worst man he had even been before that time. He found himself in other woman's arms, but they did not smell like flower, but like soup and sweat, and the hands were rough, cutting hands. But he slammed himself into the women and imagined it was she.

Three months was a long time, for the two of them. When the woman returned, she told him she knew how to take away his pain. But the man had learned bitterness in her time away, and only grunted gruffly in response. She pretended not to notice the grunt, as she ignored the rough kisses and the disappearance of his whispered, loving words.

She labored day and night for three days. He watched her day and night, watched her hands deftly work the metal, watched her white eyes carefully examine every inch, watched her mouth whisper the instructions over and over again in case she forgot. And on the fourth day she presented him with the finest armor ever made, with every bit of her soul and heart and hands and flower smell and eyes poured into it.

And so she died, but she knew that she proved Queen Mab wrong. Their loved would continue as long as the man lived, and wore the armor and treasured her memory. And when the man died, he would join her and their love would be eternal.

But the man had learned bitterness, and the three days watched her work only pained him. He had found a new pain, one he could never push away. She was simply yet another person he could not save. So he hid the armor, and didn't use it. And when the king offered him a job as his personal knight, he accepted.

And he stopped saving lives. He drank beer, and beat the women who wouldn't kneel before him and slayed dragons protecting only their eggs. He didn't treasure the woman's memory, and he didn't wear the armor. Instead he married the princess, who was a viper dressed in swan feathers. And people died, and he found he no longer cared.

He had a daughter, who he loved beyond anything he had expected to feel again. She didn't grow into a beautiful person, unlike her younger brother. But she was clever, and she had her skills, and she reminded him of the woman he had once loved. And she grew and grew and was a woman with dirt under her fingers and healing in her veins.

She wanted one thing. She wished a book that would complete her and make her feel full. The man, who was quite old by this time, decided to do his daughter this one favor before he died. But all his old armor was too small, and no longer fit him. He was forced to put on that one special suit of armor, which had no rusted, and was merely dusty, and otherwise unchanged. It fit him perfectly, as if the woman had known when he would need it most.

And he set off and searched for years, scouring the land of this book of legend. After many challenges and adventures, he found it and held it in his hands. He returned to give the book to his daughter.

But when he came back, he found her in a lover's arm. When he handed her the book, her eyes did not show the glee that he had imagined they would. She had found something else to complete her.

The man was angry beyond anything he had ever thought he would ever have felt. With his armor still covering his body, he killed his daughter, and her lover with swipe of his sword. The book cover was stained with blood.

And the armor felt this anger and hate and stupidity and rejected it, and him. It ate as his flesh as his bitterness and hate had eaten at his heart until he had stopped loving the woman. And he died, and did not the meet the woman, but when down, down, down and burned his flesh and bones and regretted it all, but still he could not love.

Queen Mab was never wrong. And the armor was rusted and black on the ground next to the man's daughter and her lover's corpses. And the book was their story, because it was the true book. And that is the true story, the story of the man that is in everyone and the woman that is in everyone and the viper dressed in swan feathers and the villagers that shun a healer." It has been since Aika has told that story. And Rukia listened to it all in complete silence.

"So Shinigami forgot this story? They gave into bitterness and pain like the man?" Aika doesn't answer, but spreads her wings and flies off. Rukia realizes the conversation is finished and she jumps down from the branch. Once inside again, she catches Ichigo's eye. He raises in curious eyebrow, she looks away.

Does Ichigo have that man in him, too? Has he already given in?

She glances at him again, and he is staring up at the board, intently attempting to figure out the problem given to the class by their teacher. And the felt swells in her chest, a feeling of pride, because she knows he has, not yet. Not while he will do anything to protect his sisters and father, not while he fights Hollows, not while he shows her a path to walk on.

But if he does, she vows to save him, to be _his_ knight in shining armor.

It's a promise.


	4. And A Goddess

**Thank you, xXaLwAyZ-LosTXx, White Ninja Spy, Wakazakari, Akemi, seal-chan, and StormBlazer (I say in chapter four).**

**An oddly written chapter, mind you. Symbolism galore! Don't feel bad if you don't see it, _I _barely see it.There's a bit of spoiler in here. Erm, if you don't know who Renji is, read at your own risk. The singing mentioned (and in italics, by the way) are lyrics from various songs by the Paperchase band. This fic is so awesome. I can find a while to randomly insert lyrics from whatever I'm listening to at the time!

* * *

**

**Chapter Three**

Once upon a time, in a school on an island named Japan, a beep was heard mid-way through class.

"Cell phones aren't allowed in school."

Rukia plucks the 'phone' out of her bag, and nods to show the teacher's heard her warning, and has understood. She opens it up and glances in it, nonetheless. "Oh, excuse me!" she cries, getting up, her chair flying backwards and slamming into the desk behind her, and running out of her room.

Ichigo sighs. _Not again_, he thinks. "Um, I have to go with her because . . . um . . . her grandfather choked and had a . . . stroke. And I have to go get my father. You know, him being a doctor and all. And stuff. Bye." And he's out of the room, and running after Rukia.

"Thanks for leaving me to make an excuse, Rukia!" He yells as they push through several doors.

She ignores the comment, and takes a left at the end of the street. "Take out Kon, the Hollow's nearby."

"Kon? I thought _you_ brought him today!"

Rukia growls at him. "Fine! I hope your body gets stolen, Ichigo!" She slips on her glove, and quickly pushes his Shinigami self out. As she does so, the smell of cherry blossoms envelops her. Aika.

"I thought you didn't like fighting Hollows," Rukia says casually to the faerie on her shoulder.

"I don't," the faerie response easily, sliding her arms around Rukia's neck, gripping tightly so as to not slip off when the two of them begin running again. "This isn't a normal Hollow."

Rukia wants to ask the faerie more questions, but Ichigo's grabbing her arm before she can open her mouth, and they've set off.

Rukia finds herself remembering the story, as she's been doing the past week. Ichigo could _definitely_ fit the description of the man, with his determination to save as many people as he can, for completely noble reasons. Could she become the woman for him, the one to try and take away his pain?

She brushes those thoughts away as soon as they come. They won't help her in fighting the Hollow, they'll only be in the way. She pulls ahead of Ichigo, leading the way through the streets of Karakura.

Suddenly, it smells like new books, like cigarettes on clothes, like cookies baked downstairs. Rukia finds herself stopping, and expects to feel Ichigo slamming into her from behind. When he does, she glances back at him to see that he's stopped too. "Ichigo? What's that—"

Then it all goes black.

* * *

_where am i it still smells like smoke where is ichigo_

_rukia is that you i can't see you_

_ichigo_

_yeah it's me_

_thank goodness where are we why can't i open my mouth and say anything_

_it smells like honey_

* * *

Ichigo is holding a bouquet of flowers, but they're biting at him. He looks down at them, with their little teeth, nibbling, nibbling at his hands, like they're trying to get at his bones. The pain is separate from him, and he just stares at the blood dripping from the wounds on his hands, bloody red hands.

Suddenly dozens of black butterflies flutter past, and their wings sound loud so loud. He looks at them, and they're surrounding him. Around and around and around. They seem to be merging together, forming some black black dark shadow blur.

The flowers are still biting, but Ichigo still doesn't feel it. He doesn't even look down at the red water spurting from his hands, because in truth, he doesn't really notice it. He's watching the figure immerge from the darkness. It's coming out slowly, slowly and—

She's pulling the flowers from his hands, and they wilt and fall from her grip in pieces. He doesn't react when she picks up his hands as well, his blood staining the smooth white pallor of her hands.

She is pulling them up to her lips, and she is kissing the blood from his hands. He feels the slight brush of her lips against his skin, and this contact is enough to cause his heart to start thumping wildly. Is this beating of his heart making the blood pump out all the harder?

The blood is gone, he notices. The butterflies are too. It's just him and her, with her lips on his hands and his eyes feeling glazed.

It smells like bubbles

* * *

The bunnies are chasing and chasing and hop hop hop, they aren't stopping. They're singing, she notices.

I want your head I want your wicked parts

She's not wicked. Her head? Why in the hell would they want her head for? Are they . . . Shinigami in disguise? That must be it. They've found her, and they're going to kill her for her crime.

I wanna wring out your evil thoughts I wanna eat out your bitter heart

They're getting closer, and closer, and closer. She's running, running, but not getting any further. The bunnies are giggling wildly, they're playing with her. She gasps for breath, but she knows she can't run for much longer. She wants to call for help but she doesn't know who to call.

Alone, alone, alone.

Down the rabbit hole, she goes. Swoop, and she floats down the hole, her skirt like a parachute. This is familiar.

The rabbits are far above her, and she laughs and laughs and says hears a voice say do you love me, do you love me?

Who are you? She doesn't say anything, but she wants to ask. The aroma of water surrounds her, and she is surprised she can sense it. It's a mystery that's been hidden for her, but suddenly revealed.

She's in heaven right now the voice sings again. Who is she? Rukia wonders who is singing. It sounds like a thousand pebbles falling down the cliff, with the wind blowing through the trees. It's cold in this hole, deep and deep and falling so deep.

Come to me, come to me, come to me.

Where are you? And then she's in a pile on the ground, dirt on her legs and on her hands, and dark eyes looking into darker shadows. No one there. Alone, alone alone. Bunnies twittering above. Waiting, waiting, expecting her.

And then the flash of orange, the swish of robes, the cold, cold, cold metal of a sword against her cheek. she's a wonderful actress.

Breath against her neck, cold, and her heart is like rabbits running, thump, bump. She reaches out with her hands, but there's only cold air there. Smells like strawberries. Smells like death. Smells like flowers in hair.

Then hands on her face, and they're warm, so different from this dark, dank place she's kneeling in. She places her own hands over the hands, big, big, big hands.

We all too must die one day, but the thing about it is, will you be ready?

Just don't go, she wants to whispers, low, so low that even the bugs in the dirt would not be able to make out her words, even if they had ears. I'll be ready, she wants to murmur, so softly, the words barely off her lips.

And there are lips against her own before she can say a thing, but they are killing her, dead, dead, dead. It's an oddly comforting feeling, this feeling of dying. All her willpower and strength is being sucked out of her, like a juice through a straw, but she loves this feeling. She's going up, and up and up, but she knows she shouldn't want to die. She'll just go again, up to the sky with the people in black and poor and hunger and bad, bad, bad.

And Renji.

She misses him. But she likes this feeling more.

It smells like mid-morning

* * *

The two of them awaken, their heads aching dreadfully.

Aika is hovering over them, smirking in a horribly condescending and haughty way. "You two are lucky I knew that faerie. She would have eaten the two of you!" After a short pause, in which she laughs, slightly maniacally, she continues slyly. "You two owe me your lives."

"Don't tell me I just had the strangest dream because of you," Ichigo groans, and hold his head in both hands. Just another wonderfully appropriate reason to hate this damn faerie.

"Not me! Haku!" She points a little ways off to the right. Balanced on a thin tree branch sits a faerie with bright orange wings, thin limbs and a white mask that is the trademark of a Hollow.

"It's a Hollow!" Rukia cries in surprise.

"There have been less than fifty faerie Hollows ever. Most have been killed, as normal Hollows are, but a few, such as Haku, here, have managed to escape death. I don't think _one_ faerie Hollow will really make such a difference" She flutters over to the faerie Hollow on those thin, wispy black wings of hers, and sits down next to her dear 'friend'.

"We're off to catch up, then" she announces loudly to the two Shinigami on the dirt nearby. Haku laughs in a strangely high-pitched voice for a Hollow, and the two faeries wisp away in the gentle breeze, leaving Rukia and Ichigo to their own devices.

"Damn her," Ichigo curses, and lifts himself off the grass. It was soft, and rather comfortable, but it was also wet, and despite the fact he was in his ethereal body, he knows Rukia isn't. He also knows she's too proud to complain about it, especially if she thinks he might need the rest. He reaches over to help her up.

Just the contact of her hands on his makes a shiver crawl up his spine. He hopes that she doesn't notice, and he knows there's a good chance she won't. She's fascinatingly ignorant at times.

At the same time, he doesn't notice her own reaction to their touch. She had been reminiscing her past, the friends she had once had, but had lost, the—and then Ichigo touches her and all those thoughts had grown wings and she felt the wind their wings made as they flew up towards the clouds, away from her.

She pulls away from him, and grunts. She doesn't like this, her gigai is acting up! It could be sick. Yes, that's it. It's very, very, very sick. She must go find medicine. "Ichigo, I'm sick."

He glances at her carefully, an eyebrow cocked. "Why? What is it?"

"My stomach hurts," she mutters, which isn't exactly true. It doesn't _hurt_, really. It's just incredibly irritating . . . in a good way.

He sighs despairingly, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Did you eat something off the ground, again? Damn it, you're such an idiot!"

She launches a kick at him, yelling at him angrily in response. He instinctively tries to dodge, and fails. A woman walking her dog nearby raises an eyebrow at the sight of a girl—at noon, wearing her school uniform—kicking at air.

"I guess it doesn't hurt that much if you're kicking at me," Ichigo snaps several minutes later, when the two of them are lying on the grass once again, worn out.

"Let's go get your body, then," she replies curtly, and jumps up. She feels the damp fabric rub against her skin and she groans in irritation. "Damn it, Ichigo. Look what you made me do! I'm so _wet_." She glares at him, and stomps off by herself in the direction of Ichigo's body.

Ichigo finds himself growing red at her words, and is extremely happy she walked off when she did. Now he doesn't have to explain why he was blushing. _Get your mind out of the damned gutter_, he scolds himself as he follows Rukia's retreating form.

Not too far away, a presence lurks. It finds itself crowded, and it hates this hush. The silence feels like stone, like a large boulder, smothering him to the earth with its weight. He's trapped, but it's the first time in _millennia _that it's even noticed. It wants to escape, to rip, tear, bite, _kill_ the bastards that locked it up in this cage made of earth and salt and truth.

Those Shinigami. They _dared_ do this to it. They should have known better than to think they could keep it locked in forever, though. It would get its revenge on those black-robed assholes. The cage is melting, has been for centuries, sinking into the sand earth underneath it. No one had taken care of its cage, and so the cage had left, feeling its purpose had been completed.

The creature is free to go. Free to seek vengeance. Free to teach those Shinigami about the price of arrogance.

It spreads its slender, black wings and rises up up and up, through the darkness, towards the exit and much much nearer to the two young Shinigami that smell like prey.

* * *

**Blegh, not my best chapter. But the plot has advanced a smidge, though!**


	5. Lived in a Castle

**Oi, so sorry about the delay! I got very, very sidtracked. Well, a bit is revealed in this chapter. I expect there to be one or two more chapters. **

**

* * *

Chapter Four**

* * *

"What _is_ this?"

Ichigo's perpetual frown deepens at the comment, and Aika notices vaguely how much he reminds her of a troll she met one time at the Tower. He had a wonderful sense of humor . . . and a horrible sense of _smell_, especially if he managed to live where he did. Troll-like or not, Ichigo thinks they should be content that he is capable of getting both Aika _and_ Rukia food at the same time. But _no_, instead they whine and stick their tongues out of at the new concoction his sister has made.

It's not like the food is _bad_, or anything. In fact, Yuzu inherited his mother's cooking abilities. Aika and Rukia are just the pickiest eaters he has ever met in his entire life. Either the rice is too soft, or it's too hard. The soup is too spicy, or the dessert is going to rot their teeth. It's ridiculous, he thinks.

"It's _food_, Aika. Appreciate it." The frown is burrowed on his face, and he decides to take a stab at his homework. Why not, he has nothing better to do at the moment.

And then it comes, like a wave in the ocean over the head of a small child. The scent is riveting and both Shinigami are shocked at how _alive_ their noses feel. It seems like they can smell each other, even, the sweet and worry and flowers, swords and wings. From the hallways they know there is sadness plastered on the walls, as well as a little boy with a big smile and a little girl with tears in her eyes.

Beyond that, innocence that is slipping away, a dark, dreary cloud that won't go away. This is complete _overwhelming_, knowing all this through your nose.

Aika is used to this, and her own sense of smell is only enhanced the slightest bit. But . . . there is only one thing that can be doing this. But it . . .it can't be.

_She_ should not have been sent here! How could they send one mere faerie to battle this? The Grand Mafa had foreseen _something_, but she had told no one _what_. Danger, vague and dark and heavy, but no more than that. Danger? That is completely _underestimating_ this creature.

Danger is this creature's dead and buried grandfather.

Aika can't fight this thing. Ichigo can't fight this thing. No one can. No Shinigami, no faerie, no troll, no nothing.

She flutters weakly over to the girl, and lands on her shoulder, gripping her neck tightly. Before she loses consciousness, she smells _it_. It does not smell of death, nor of life. This thing is neither. It is nothing. The nothing.

"She's passed out!" Rukia cries, interrupting the reverie the two of them were trapped in.

"Who?" Ichigo replies faintly, half listening to her. She rushes over and hits him over the head.

"Pay attention! Something's happening!" Her voice is angry, but Ichigo can practically _see_ the fear emitting from her in waves. She's afraid. These feelings are drugging him, and he feels as if he's half-awake, or maybe that this is a dream. He's swimming through everything, and it's all numbed. "Ichigo!" Someone's calling him, but from far away. Too far away, it doesn't even matter.

Something hits him, like a trunk, it's heavy and strong and he knows—deep, deep in his head, he knows—that it should hurt, but that doesn't mean it's does. Numb. That fear scent, it's stronger than ever. He can taste it on his tongue, and it's sour and tart. There's something pressing against his lips, and he knows his heart should be beating faster, but it's all slowing down.

Through glazed eyes he sees her dark eyes, and he wants to run his fingers over her eyelids. Will she flutter them as he presses his thumb lightly against that pale skin, or will she pull away? He's suddenly incredibly curious, and even though his arms feel like lead, he's pulling them up to her face.

Bunnies. They're even in her aroma.

But her eyes are gone, and he feels something in his side again. This time . . . it hurts. Not much, but a little bit. It's enough. "Rukia?"

"Yes! You stupid idiot, what do you think you're doing, going weak on me?" She's shaking his shoulders roughly, and the feeling in his body is being jolted back violently.

"Stop, stop it!" It's odd, how she goes from kissing him—she _had_ been kissing him, hadn't she?—to abusing him. It was so much like Rukia.

"Then get up! I feel something coming!" And she's right. There's this _rippling_, and this silent roar echoing in his head, as if its always been there.

"Is it . . . another Menos Grande?" He's pulling himself up, his legs still not completely right.

"No! It's . . . it's too _strong!_ Ichigo, I don't think even you stand a chance against whatever this is! I . . . you can't face it! You'll die!" She sounds desperate, and Ichigo can still taste her on his tongue. Not her physical taste, but her mind taste. It's like he has been blocking something in his brain his whole life—everyone has—and the door has opened and everything's flooding in. He knows things there's no way he should be able to know.

She's afraid, and she wants him to stay with her as long as possible, and if he's dead she'll be alone. It's what she's thinking. He knows what she's thinking.

He wonders if she knows what he's thinking.

"Make me a Shinigami, Rukia." It's not a question; it's a firm demand. He's not going to back down from this, despite Rukia's fear and his own. Who else has the slightest chance of defeating this thing? She has to understand.

She will not cry. She has not cried in too long. She will not cry.

She will not cry, she repeats, slipping on the red glove the two of them know so well. The faerie is still balanced precariously on her shoulder, but neither of them are paying her any mind. She will not cry. And Ichigo's physical body falls into a limp heap at her feet, and his Shinigami self is standing in front of her, readying his sword.

"Don't follow me, Rukia," he yells at her as he runs towards the window, opening it with a quick push.

"Stop being an idiot, Ichigo! If you're going to go kill yourself, I refuse to let you do it on your own!" And he looks back at her, as if there is time for useless eye contact that says it all. Damn, in their hearts, they know it all already. They've known it for a while.

They let their feet lead them towards this mysterious entity, having no idea what to expect but they know it's going to be _horrible_.

* * *

Aika awakens sometime on the way, her skirt higher than proper, but that is the last thing on her mind. They're. . . running _towards_ it? Why?

"Stop!" she cries, standing up on Rukia's thin shoulder, balancing herself with the thin black wings on her back. "What do you think you're doing! _You're_ crazy if you think you can handle this!"

Ichigo doesn't even turn his head to look at her, but she knows he's speaking to her. "Look, we're _not_ interested. We're gonna fight it, and your screams about how we shouldn't _aren't_ going to stop us!" He can say this, and the words can tumble out, but he has no power behind them.

Aika does. "Stop." Suddenly Ichigo cannot move, and although he's itching to put up his sword and _slash_ something, he can't. Has Aika grown? he wonders, looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Ichigo, you can not fight this. Your friend Ishida—" He's not _my_ friend, Ichigo thinks to himself, stupidly. "Has more of a chance than you do!"

But the boy with the ebony hair isn't anywhere nearby. In fact, he's not even in the precinct. He's off in a sewing competition, and doing quite well if he does say so himself.

Ichigo wants to demand furiously why a guy like _that_ would have a better chance against a hollow, but he can't even move his mouth. From the looks of it, neither can Rukia.

"Do you want to know what this creature is? Will it stop you from pursuing it if I inform you of your ancestor's misdeeds?" She takes a deep breath, and its not difficult to conclude that she's going to drop something of a bombshell. "That thing is half faerie, half Shinigami. I told you the Shinigami of old got too arrogant, right? That they thought themselves too strong? They were getting bored, up there in their towers and villages, and they weren't happy just being alive any longer."

What is she getting to? Rukia has a horrible idea of what they did now . . . but. . . that's impossible. An honorable Shinigami would never allow this to occur. . .

"They _created_ the Hollows. They experimented until they separated a human's soul from its ethereal body, leaving only a being that has a thirst for the thing it lacks." She glares at the two Shinigami hatefully, and continues after a moment's pause. "Us, faeries would have nothing to do with it. We stopped most contacts with Shinigami, and we only have get in touch with one when it is absolutely necessary."

The silence was like a flower pedal falling on a windy day, slow and long, vulnerable and dead. It's as if a stomping foot stepped on it, turning it brown with dirt. Rukia and Ichigo would not have spoken even if they had been free of Aika's voicespell.

This is more of a shock for Rukia than for Ichigo. After all, Ichigo knows a grand total of two Shinigami, and can easily imagine them corrupted and evil.

Rukia, though, knew more. She lived with them, she worked with them, she loved a few of them. How could Shinigami like the ones she had known have done something like this? How many had fallen to the Hollows?

She thought they were the _good_ guys.

Maybe there aren't any good guys.

* * *

The creature senses the two frozen Shinigami, and another scent, one much more familiar. Faerie. It tilts its head to the side, trying to understand this. Where are the faeries?

It remembers a time when the spicy and musky aroma of mischievous pixies and noble warrior gremlins would assalt your senses whenever you awoke. Now . . . the only faerie-like scent he can catch is a faint one with the two Shinigami.

In its absence . . . had the Shinigami gone as far as to harm the faeries? If they had, it would personally see the mall pay of their mistakes . . . as painfully as possible.

It crawled through this thick, sickly human air, and it feels dirty and disgusting on its skin. This is why faeries don't like this world. Humans don't have their priorities straight, and care more about their brief entertainment than everlasting health and beauty. It wants to go and start massacring Shinigami as quickly as possible.

The aroma of black death and decisive white weapons is getting closer and closer . . .

By this time Aika is too preoccupied with the approaching presence to hold the voicespell on the two. "Shit. It's coming."

Rukia and Ichigo could have both figured _that _out by now. It's terrifying, this spiritual energy. More than Byakuya's and Kenpachi's put together and mulitpied by five. Rukia wants to throw up. In fact, she's barely standing.

Ichigo notices this, and holds both her shoulders in his hands tightly. "Are you okay, Rukia?" He whispers into her ear, and she wonders how he can manage to be so _calm_. Ichigo's strength can in no way measure to . . .

"Shinigami? Stand still. It won't be long for me to eat you."

The first Hollow is standing before them.


End file.
